


Snow Angels

by itsdeianeira



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Feels, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Christmas Eve, Christmas Miracles, Derek Deserves Nice Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Derek Hale, M/M, Matchmaker Laura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 21:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8939497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsdeianeira/pseuds/itsdeianeira
Summary: “Everybody's going crazy in New York, you should have seen the taxi driver that brought me here. Crazy, I tell you. CRAZY. The streets are all clogged up. People become neurasthenic standing in line behind a snowplow, losing that little bit of patience they had left. It looks like a scene from The Day After Tomorrow!” his voice raised steadily.The woman standing a couple of feet away from him, who was lulling her baby to sleep, shot him an angry look, warning him to keep quiet.The airport was packed, overcrowded with lost and alarmed faces, unsure of where to go or what to do. Kids were running around playing cops and robbers to kill time whilst their parents persistently stared at the timetable boards flashing in a series of “delayed”, soon changing into “deleted”.  Stiles was nervously fidgeting, pacing in a secluded corner, which happened to be also the only place peaceful enough for a mother to bring her child to fall asleep. Just his luck. Wherein Stiles is stuck in New York for Christmas, Derek won't celebrate, and Laura is the usual matchmaker. Well, maybe usual is not the right word.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thalissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalissa/gifts), [itsraggedymorgs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsraggedymorgs/gifts).



> My mind elaborated this story ages ago. October 2015 to be precise. But last year I was in no condition to write something good, so I left it there, among the tons of docs in my fic folder. This year I decided to go back to it and polish the story as en exercise for my university programme. It's cheesy, surreal, and I'm starting to think it's quite stupid (standard me, basically lol), but I thought about posting it nonetheless and let you judge.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> The story is completely unbeta'd. I apologize for any typo or mistake you might find.

_Trudging onward, braving a harsh winter storm_  
_You and I met passing by, and now our spirits feel warm._  
_I don't have anyone at home to talk to,_  
_And you don't have anything to do,_  
_So I'll spend my Christmas with you._

_\- Christmas Song, Owl City_

 

**

“What do you mean every flight has been suppressed?”

“I literally mean that every flight has been suppressed, Dad. Like, the meaning is literal, you know. Deleted. Cancelled. Revok- ”

“Okay, Stiles, thank you. I got it.”

His father sighed out soundly from the other end of the line. Stiles didn't need to be in front of him to clearly picture the disappointed expression deforming the Sheriff’s face in that moment. Mostly because Stiles was wearing the same look, reflected in the cold glass of the airport window-walls.

“I know, I know. I'll see what I can do, but it seems like this snowstorm is crippling the whole East Coast,” he puffed out, defeated. “Everybody's going crazy in New York, you should have seen the taxi driver that brought me here. Crazy, I tell you. CRAZY. The streets are all clogged up. People become neurasthenic standing in line behind a snowplow, losing that little bit of patience they had left. It looks like a scene from The Day After Tomorrow!” his voice raised steadily.

The woman standing a couple of feet away from him, who was lulling her baby to sleep, shot him an angry look, warning him to keep quiet.

The airport was packed, overcrowded with lost and alarmed faces, unsure of where to go or what to do. Kids were running around playing cops and robbers to kill time, whilst their parents persistently stared at the timetable boards flashing in a series of “delayed”, soon changing into “deleted”.  Stiles was nervously fidgeting, pacing in a secluded corner, which happened to be also the only place peaceful enough for a mother to bring her child to fall asleep. Just his luck.

 _Sorry_ , he mouthed with a contrite face.

“We're seeing it on the news...” his father updated him.

“I swear to you, it's a freaking nightmare,” he stated, a little quieter.

“I believe you. We're just sorry you can't be here for Christmas...”

“I'm not just sorry, I'm utterly gutted. I should have left a couple of days ago. I don't know why I left Professor Atwell drag me into this project in first place, I should have said no from the start. I would have been at home days ago, at this point.”

“Stiles you love your job and this research means a lot to you. There was no way you could have known this would happen, and you would have accepted the task nonetheless. It's okay, it's not your fault the apocalypse has decide to begin yesterday night.”

“Yeah, I know, it's just... I was looking forward to see you guys again and hug Lily real tight. I miss you all so much.”

“We miss you, too, son. And you have no idea how eager she is to see you ag-” his father cut through the sentence for barely a second. “Speaking of the devil,” he resumed in a proud tone that Stiles knew always came with a smile.  
“Stileeees,” a thinner, white voice called out in the distance. “May I speak with him, please?”

“You may, your Highness,” the man agreed in faux solemnity, before addressing Stiles again. “Son, I’ll leave you to the princess, here. Call us when you get home.”

“Sure thing, daddio.”

“Bye, son.”

“Bye, dad.”

The crinkling sound of the speaker being teared off his father's hand echoed, and a voice exploded through the phone screaming, “Uncle Stiles!”

Every time he heard Lily speaking, it was always a relief to realize her voice was still the same childish one from before. To think she was already five, that she was growing up so fast and that he wasn't there to witness it 24/7... it scared the hell out of him.

“Hey there, snickerdoodle. How are you?”

“Good! Gramma and I were teaching Dad how to bake.”

“Oh my, it's gonna be the Hell's Kitchen McCall edition.” The five-year-old giggled into the speaker, her laughter going straight to Stiles gut, making it churning in sadness.

“Yeah. He’s not that good at cooking. He let the first batch burn, and Gramma hit him with the rag.” She ranted happily. “You're much better! Maybe when you arrive we can make your amazing lasagna and our secret magic cookies. When are you coming back?”

The emphasis on the last question, the enthusiasm she put into it, her voice squealing high-pitched and joyful, everything made Stiles' heart clench painfully.  
“I don't know, sweetheart,” he said, desolation blatant in his tone. “The airplanes are not flying anymore because of the snow, and I can't tell when I'll land in California. It could be in a few days.”

“But it's Christmas Eve!”

“I know, Lily. I'm so sorry...”

“It’s not fair. I miss you.” He could feel the pout in her voice.

“I miss you, too, puppy. Just know I'll be there to hug you in a couple of days. I'm still coming, I promise.” He looked up towards the static scene playing before his eyes through the industrial window, a sweet calm inactivity upon the runways if not for a slow dancing of snowflakes in the air.

“Okay. I'll wait, then.”

“Good girl-”

An unexpected screech cut through the line, piercing in his ears. He could hear his niece's jerky movements and a general chaos raising next to the phone. “No, Dad, let me go!” Another squeal came out high-pitched.

“C'mon, it's my turn, pixie.” Scott's voice resounded from the other end of the line, lower and clear.

“Stop it, I need to tell him goodbye.” The commotion quickly died out and his niece finally resumed. “Sorry. Dad is tickling me because he wants to speak with you... Bye, Stiles. I love you to the moon and back.”

And that—that’s when his heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

“See you soon, snickerdoodle. I love you so much,” he said quietly.

“Bro! What the heeee-eck is happening?” Scott greeted him, making a great effort in avoiding sweating in proximity of his little daughter.

“Yeah, bro, you have no idea. I'm going back home and cooking for one person, all by myself until this weather alert is a closed case.” Stiles ran his fingers through his hair in distress.

He was leaning back on the window wall now, craning his neck so as to look out. The snow fell copiously on the planes, painting a magical white landscape dotted in red from the flashlights that shone through the fog. How was it possible for something so beautiful to be so annoying and bothersome?

“We could make a Skype call tonight,” his step-brother proposed.

“Yes. Yes, we should totally do that. So I can at least wish you a Merry Christmas and all.”

“Okay, then. I'll leave you to your Mission Impossible. Keep me update.”

“Call you later, bro.”

Stiles ended the call but kept his eyes on the screen for a while. It was incredibly frustrating not to be able to reach home in time for his favorite holidays, and the sad, disappointed voice of his niece had given him the coup de grace.

He looked up at the timetable display declaring his flight to San Francisco officially canceled, and heaved out soundly, admitting his own defeat. There's no need to stay here and hope anymore, since waiting would mean risking to be stuck at airport for the night. He grasped the handle of his luggage again and quickened his pace, meandering through the crowd as he headed towards the closest exit. Calling a taxi, he prayed he'd get home safe and sound.

 

**

Out of the window, flakes fell to settle one upon the others, laying out  a soft duvet on the high rooftops. New York looked at its best in the middle of winter, overcast by a whiteness that could almost conceal the grey signs of tiredness and lack of sleep on the city’s face. Only temporarily pure, right in time for Christmas, when sins had to be disguised under the occasional mask of artificial goodness and commercial happiness. Beautifully poetical.

And yet, Derek hated it. To his eyes, everything about that period of the year was sickening. Snow more than anything else.

How they could see purity in one of the most annoying atmospheric agents ever was still a complete mystery to him. He would never understand the enthusiasm exuding from some people at the sight of icy grains reversing on earth. Because that's what snow was – clouds of iced water coming down to rest on every surface, clogging up passages and slowing the entire city down to an insufferable pace. Nothing to be excited for. And still, everybody loved it. (At least, until the moment it caused them to be late for their appointments. Then, everyone felt in right to swear at the spiteful weather.)

Kids, he could understand. They loved playing with it whenever the school was closed, making snowmen and snow angels and snowballs wars... But for adults it was merely a hindrance.

And Christmas was always the worst when it came to snow. Thousands and thousands of people reversing on the streets, led by the urge for last minute shopping. More traffic, more noise, more vexation for everyone.

He hated it.

No, really. He _loathed_ it.

Luckily for Derek, his Christmas only involved warming up the flat and snuggle up on the couch, reading and fending off Christmas movies marathons on TV. He wouldn't even have to cook. No Christmas Eve dinners, nor Christmas brunches or feasts. Thank God for take away.

“Are you serious? _This_ is what you plan to do for Christmas?” Erica had asked, astonished, a few days back. She had proposed him a wonderful holiday back in Illinois with hers and Boyd's families, _to be together at least during the festivities_ , she had explained. But Derek had already made up his mind. He didn't do Christmas, for more than one reason.

“Yep,” he had answered. “Never been surer.”

“Der, I know you have to process a lot with everything that's been going on in your life, but you can't spend the rest of your days mourning. Is this the way you want to live? Barely surviving? I'm worried.”

“You shouldn't. It's not up to you to worry, I'm not a baby you have to look out for.”

“You think? And who should, then? Since it's obvious you're not able to take care of yourself.”

That's why he didn't want company. People would never get his way of being, and speaking with them just got things worse, pushing him to live the quiet life of a reclusive.

“I can take care of myself just fine. I'm still breathing, so I guess I'm doing a good job, after all. I work, I have hobbies – I have the right to want different things, you know.” He had stated in a firm and gravelly voice.

“Yeah,” she had continued. “Not celebrating festivities, avoiding any kind of social interaction outside the two daily sentences you're forced to put together to communicate with your assistant... And what about your birthday?”

“What about it?”

Erica had let out an exasperated and very loud grunt, throwing her arms in the air, defeated.

Derek knew it was hard to watch someone you love isolating himself, and he was sorry Erica had to go through it. But this was the way he coped. Christmas represented everything Derek tried to keep himself away from, and he wasn’t prone to compromises.

Eventually, Erica had wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him goodbye, her bug brown eyes full of sadness. She had also managed to extort him the promise he would call them every day to let them know he was fine, but in the end, they were the ones calling him first anyway.

Jesus. He needed alcohol to get through Christmas Eve. Streams of alcohol. And maybe a little chocolate cake. Because, who says no to cake.

Derek strode along the aisle, wore his thickest coat, and put on a scarf not worrying about colors matching. Making sure he had his wallet in his back pocket and the keys in hand before walking out the door, he hoped this storm would not slow him down.

Did he mention that he hated snow?

**

Stiles was mentally going through the ingredients he needed for a carbonara, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, while Sam Smith sang out through the speakers of his Jeep. Tires securely tied up in snow chains, rolling towards home.

After the wearing cab odyssey through the busy streets of the city, he had finally come back home only to remember his kitchen cupboards were actually empty. (He should have had safely landed home by now, thank you very much! He knew better than to leave something that would have probably gone rotten during his absence.)

The situation was so critical he had even considered safely staying at home and ordering Chinese, but it had lasted two seconds, before he had felt guilty about breaking tradition. If he couldn't eat Melissa's inviting, elaborated dishes, he would have at least made one of the best recipes he had in his bag. He had made a list, took his Jeep's keys and run out in the snow, straight to the closest market.

And now he was on the way back home, snowstorm raging and making it hard to see at a span from his nose.

He was loudly going through All I Want For Christmas, when he noticed a black sportive car parked at the side of a particularly dangerous segment of the road.

The headlights were all turned off  -- the motor was probably damaged, if the hood held up was something to go with -- and the tempest made it hard to notice it in time. Before you could make it out, you had already driven too far.

But Stiles was driving down slowly, and with the sole illumination of his fog lights, he had managed to see someone was still inside, probably waiting for assistance.

He had two seconds to think of what to do, but before he knew it he was slowing to a halt a couple of yards away.

It was Christmas, for God's sake! He would have never left a person in distress waiting for a fucking towtrack in this climate. He might have had no family to go home to tonight, but there was an extremely high chance this human being was directed towards a Christmas dinner.

So he quickly wrapped his scarf around his neck and open the door to slide out in the absolute cold.

Risking to break his neck when his shoe's sole slipped on the wet pave, he finally approached the driver's side window and knocked.

A woman, who was staring down at the display of her phone, looked up and turned her face to him.

“Hey! Can I help?” Stiles called out to make it audible, although his voice came out muffled even to is ears due to the tireless torment whistling loud. But if she didn't hear his voice, she must at least read his lips, because she smiled tenderly as her shoulders relaxed in relief. Her hand went to the handle and Stiles watched as the window slowly descended to reveal her.

“Oh, thank God! I was starting to lose hope. I've been here for half an hour and it's freezing with the heat turned off.”

As she theatrically flailed her hands, Stiles decided he liked her.

“Are you kidding? Where did the Christmas spirit go?” he questioned disappointed.

“It's the snow. It gets the madness out of the calmest people.” She smiled again, seeking warmness by rubbing her palms on the upper arms that crossed on her chest.

“I know what you mean. So, what happened here?”

“Ah. I don't know. She just abruptly died on me, and she hasn't given signs of life ever since.” She said, extending her arm towards the steering wheel to point out her black car, which Stiles had recognized was a Camaro. “Which is ridiculous! I'm, like, 3 miles away from my destination.”

“Ouch. Tough luck, girl. I'm sorry.” Stiles said to sympathize, his look fixed on the car. “I would try to resurrect her, but with this blizzard it would take me forever and we would probably be two ice cubes by the time I'd manage any kind of result.” He explained, wincing.

She laughed then, placing a hand on his shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Don't worry. I can leave her here, if you'd be so kind to deliver me.”

Stiles nodded. “Of course. No problem at all. Do you need any help to move your things from here to the jeep?”

“No, thank you. It's just me and a bag. I can take it myself.”  While she gathered her things, Stiles strode back to his jeep and jumped inside to find shelter from the chills.

“Definitely warmer.” She said once she had settled in the passenger's seat, already starting to take her scarf off.

Now that he could easily see her, he realized how beautiful she was. Under the dim light of the street lamp various feet away with the cold wind paralyzing his face, he had missed her long dark brown hair and her gentle features. Her eyes were forest green under the yellow light of the jeep. She could have been, what? 32? 34? Clearly in her early thirties, anyway.

“I'm Laura, by the way.” She extended her hand towards Stiles, who shook it before he could ignite the car.

“I'm Stiles.”

“It's good to know my savior's name.”

He snorted. “Hardly a savior. I just happened to be free on Christmas Eve and in the right place at the right time. Coincidence.”

“I don't actually believe in coincidence. Do you?” She turned her face to him with a scrutinizing look, and Stiles suddenly felt self-conscious. Well, more than the usual, that is.

“I don't know. I'd like to believe everything happens for a reason, but right now I'm just disappointed the massive strike in the transport sector prevented me from reaching my family for our usual Christmas time. I don't enjoy when things don't take the turn I planned. That's all.”

“Gosh, I'm so sorry. Snow can be a bitch.”

Stiles laughed. “Yeah, guess you are an expert. So, where am I taking you, milady?”

He promptly looked on the GPS for the address Laura told him, making sure to take the faster way to her house.

“It's my brother's, actually.” She specified. “I don't live here in NYC anymore, but since he's stubborn and won't celebrate Christmas, which happens to also be his birthday, I'm joining him in all hopes to put some sense into his head.”

“Woah! He's a Christmas baby? That's awesome.” He let out enthusiastically.

At which, she scoffed. “He wouldn't agree with you. Not now, at least. He kind of hates this period of the year. He persists in locking himself up in his apartment to eat take away and drink wine. I bet he even bought himself a small packaged cake for his birthday.”

“A bit of a Grinch.”

Laura stopped and began to reason on Stiles prompt about her brother. He could see her mentally comparing the two pictures, pinpointing all the similarities, counting them one by one on her fingertips. Then she burst out laughing and shook her head at her silly thoughts.

“Now that I think about it, I used to call him that when we were kids,” she laughed. “He's generally broody, with a wonderful frown that could win some kind of prize... Oh, and he does this thing with his eyebrows that is amazing.” Her face crumpled in mimicking what supposedly was her brother's typical expression. “They’re so thick and dark, and when he furrows them they basically join right over his nose, slightly crinkling his forehead. They can go very low if he's angry and eye-squinting, but when he widens his eyes they can shoot up so fast you won't even see it coming.”

An overwhelming wave of happiness burst out of her mouth in a hiccupping array of delightful sounds. She was cackling with her whole body, bringing her hands to her abdomen to contain the fun.

“When we were kids,” she went on. “I would make joke of him just to watch him cross his arms on his once-small chest and sulk. It was fun to go and hug him and feel his muscles relax at the realization I was kidding him.” She could barely even intake enough air from time to time, her laughter taking over again only two seconds later.

It was contagious, Stiles found, this inundating cheeriness. He chuckled along with her, even though with half her force.

“Sorry, I don't even know why this is so funny, all of a sudden,” she said, as laughter started to slowly fade out. “I've seen that face a million times, but I guess nostalgia has distorted the image I have been safekeeping in my memory. Maybe I'm missing that gloomy expression more than I realize.”

And Stiles did get that. “Tell me about it. I'm permanently terrorized of forgetting the sound of my little neice's laughter or the shades of her eyes, even though we see each other for every vacation. Every time I come back home it's like the first time, same wonderment, same irrepressible joy.” He agreed.

When Stiles' eye left the road to peek a glance in Laura's direction, she was looking at him, smiling with something that Stiles thought he recognized as pride. Which, it didn't make much sense to be honest, but whatever.

“He's cold only on the exterior, though.” She resumed, causing Stiles' face cringing for a moment before she could explain herself. “My brother, I mean. He forged an armor around to protect himself and the others. But Derek's a softie on the inside. He's not even that hard to get... Or maybe it's just because I know him too well, I don't know. Maybe I'm biased, but I think he would open up to the right person. It takes a lot of patience, but I think he's worth it.”

Listening to her rumbling about her brother, Stiles felt like he already knew this broody but soft guy. Derek. It was like he knew Laura since ages, like talking to someone you haven’t seen in a while but has never stopped being on your mind. He could feel it settling in his belly, a comfortable sense of familiarity towards a perfect stranger filling the tiny spaces of his old vehicle. This – he thought – this is Christmas. This is a good way to use the time you would have spent alone doing nothing.

Despite the snow and the traffic, it didn't take too long to reach Laura's brother's.

“That's it.” She said, pointing her index towards a tasteful block of apartments made of brick walls and black railings and blinds, right across the narrow street. “He has a loft on the top floor, the unassailable evidence he's a lone wolf.”

Stiles huffed out a laugh, slightly fogging the air before him. “I guess this is a goodbye, then.”

“What? No way! I need to reward you properly for taking a stranger home safe and sound.”

“There's no nee-”

“Would you like to stay for dinner? I mean, you said you're alone tonight, and it's Christmas, so...”

“Oh.” Stiles wasn't expecting that. “Laura, I... I don't know. I have a Skype call to make back at home, and I don't really want to intrude.”

“Puhleeze! I'm inviting you, you wouldn't be intruding.”

“And your brother? I mean, it's his birthday too. And I really need to call my family in Cali at midnight local time. I just can't. Not tonight. But thank you.”

Laura's smile never faded throughout Stiles' rambling, and finally she nodded. “I understand perfectly. I tried.” She said, shrugging lightheartedly.

When she opened her arms widely, waiting for him to fill the space between them, Stiles hesitated just a second before lunching himself in. “Thank you, Stiles. I owe you a lot.”

“It was a pleasure,” he said, as she pulled away slowly.

“Have a merry Christmas!”

“You, too. Wish your brother Happy Birthday for me.”

“Consider it done.” Gathering her bags, she opened the car door and opened it, stepping out into the cold and waving. Stiles waited until she reached the door of the building, then turned the key in the ignition, heading towards a lonely Christmas Eve.

It wasn’t until he stopped at the first red light that he noticed the baby blue scarf lying on the passenger seat beside him.

**

Stiles didn’t even know what he was doing. He had turned his jeep around and parked again in front of the building Laura had pointed out and just stood there in the cold, unsure of what to do. Until the gate of the building opened to let out an entire family, clearly headed to a Christmas dinner. Kids were jumping and singing while the mother tried to balance bags and trays in her arms. Stiles helped her keep the door opened and she smiled warmly, thanking and wishing him merry Christmas.

He hadn’t meant to sneak in, he had planned on ringing. He didn’t know why he did it, but he slipped into the foyer and took the elevator to the top floor, and now here he was, knocking on the stark wood of this dark loft.

I mean, how much could a lightbulb cost, anyway?

“Isaac, I swear that if you’re—“

The door slid open and the speech Stiles had meticulously prepared suddenly flew out of the window.

Woah, Laura was certainly a talent at descriptions. Her brother's sour face being exactly how Stiles had pictured it, his eyebrows skyrocketing on his forehead, and eyes wide in surprise.

But she had sorely failed at illustrating the man's charm. This dark, tall cutout was entirely made of muscles, perfectly built in broad shoulders and solid pecks and defined abs that were poorly disguised by his red sweater. He looked so firm and solid in his rigid movements he seemed sculptured into marble. The whole picture was hypnotizing.  
“I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.” The guy said, revealing a voice gentler than what Stiles had expected from him. “Can I help you?” his words said, while his body closed on itself, arms tangling on his chest.

“You must be Derek. Huh. I'm Stiles, nice to meet you.” He said, braving his own awkwardness and extending his hand for the other man to shake.

Derek’s eyes fell on it for a moment then flicked up again to meet his, one of those mystic eyebrows arching in suspicion. He didn’t answer. If possible, Stiles thought he saw him hugging himself tighter.

“O-kaaaay.” Stiles lowered his hand embarrassed and dug it into his coat’s pocket. “Sorry to bother. I... I was looking for Laura.”

The guy’s face did something funny, wrinkling impossibly to deform his features one expression per second, as if too many emotions had transfixed him at the same time.

“Is this a joke?” This time his voice came out graver.

“What? No. Why would -” Derek’s hand closed around the huge handle and pull the door with so much strength Stiles hadn’t the time to add anything before being cut out by the thunderous bang.

He just stood there with his jaw dropping in bewilderment. He stared at the closed gate in the dim light that came from the small window on the wall. The air static while his nerved vibrated with anger.

He didn’t know how much he stayed like this before throwing himself at the door and starting to pounding on the wooden surface. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?” He started when he heard someone pulling the handle again. “I just gave her a lift here and I-”

Suddenly, Stiles had his back flat at the wall behind him, his feet hovering inches over the floor. Derek had his fist grasping at Stiles’ coat and was lifting him up like he weighted nothing. Stiles’ hand tightened into the fabric of Laura’s scarf he was still holding.

“Listen to me, you piece of... I don't know who you are, but if you think it's funny to come here on Christmas Eve and remind me the reason these fucking festivities are not so holly jolly for me anymore, then go fuck yourself and have a merry Christmas on my account.”

 “I don't... I swear I just wanted to give Laura this,” Stiles stuttered scared.

“Stop saying her name, for God's sake!”

“Why? I just-”

“Because she's dead!”

Stiles fixed at Derek as if he was crazy. Was it some kind of fucked up prank? He parted his lips aiming for words but managing only breaths. “What? No. I- She was- I delivered her here. I swear she was real... Her Camaro broke down and I found her on the side of the road waiting for a tow track, and I gave her a lift. I swear she was the one to indicate this flat to me.”

“You're drunk.”

“No, I'm not! I'm perfectly functioning and this is impossible.” 

“Exactly. Impossible. Because she died two years ago, on this day.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t believe Derek’s words.

But the longer he looked at this man, the more Stiles could see the brokenness in his eyes. Those seafoam irises were filled with all the pain Derek had tried to suffocate for God knows how long, and that proved something at least.

He looked down at the stole in his hand, noticing at the edge of his sight Derek’s glance had followed. He brought it up to their sight level, to see that baby blue under the pale light of the moon, wishing Derek could recognize it. And he could, if the horror in his eyes was something to go by.

“Where did you find it?”

“I told you she—“

“Don’t. Fucking. Lie. To me.” The man seethed between his teeth. His fist was still strong on Stiles’ jacket, but at least he could feel the ground under his feet now.

“Derek.” Stiles met his eyes, resolute to keep them both there. “We’ve never met before. How would I know your name? How would I know where you live?” He asked calmly.

“You could be a well-trained theft for all I know.”

“You’re right. I could be,” he said with the kindest tone he could come up with. “But I’m not.” Derek was still looking at him, analyzing him, probably trying to understand if he was to be trusted. “I met her on the side of the road. She was stuck with her black Camaro and I had nowhere to be to, so I stopped and helped her. I was coming back from the store. I still have the groceries in my jeep if you want to take a look. She guided me to this address, and when she left the car to come up here, she forgot this.”

Something inside Derek finally broke. Stiles could almost see the shock and pain enveloping his heart, accelerating its rate. The guy shook his head, taking a step back after the other, leaving Stiles to chase after him towards the apartment.

And that… yeah, that wasn’t exactly how Stiles had expected to spend his Christmas Eve.

**

Derek kept brushing his fingers through the soft fiber of the scarf, incapable of turning his glance away from it. He had blinked a couple of times, but the piece of clothing hadn’t disappeared as he was still expecting it to.

The little snag Laura had made when she had crammed it messily into her bag together with her keys was still there. Even some of the fringes, Derek noticed, where still braided like Erica had left them after a boring morning at the library.

His thumb slid along the hem on the light blue fabric, finding the exact point where the seam had been chirurgically ripped to be replaced by a rougher tacking. “Darek, I want my label off because it makes me itch. What’s the point in cutting it to the base if it’s even more stinging?” she had explained to him, when Derek had whined about his sister ruining his Christmas present to her.

The problem was, he was thoroughly sure that scarf had been buried five feet deep into the ground, together with his sister. It didn’t make sense, to have it here, softly brushing between his callous fingers. It just didn’t make any sense, and still there was no doubt it was his sister’s scarf.

“How can it be?” he wheezed to himself.

“Don’t worry. I’m still trying to figure it out myself.” Stiles appeared at his side holding two fuming cups of tea. “Sorry, I haven’t found the sugar.”

“I’ll get it.” Derek said, easing the scarf on the sofa beside him while Stiles left his cup on the coffee table. He stood, slowly pacing towards the highest cupboard where he usually left the sugar in the kitchen, but as soon as he opened it, staring inside for a second, he turned around.

There was a stranger on his settee, head bowed in adoration of the waves forming in his mud, his palm seeking warmness firmly wrapped around it. Derek didn’t know what got into him that night, but he had left the guy – Stiles. Guy’s name was Stiles, he had learnt – inside his apartment. He had seen something in Stiles’ eyes, something desperate that resonated with his own soul, something that had suddenly colored the insignificant paleness of those cold days, warming him unexpectedly. Somehow, he knew he wasn’t lying.

Derek grasped the sugar and headed back, putting it down in silence. Stiles served himself with three little spoons and then slid the dispenser towards Derek.

“Ah, no, I like it natural.” Stiles shot him an unintelligible glance, then scoffed. “What?” Derek’s eyebrow naturally raised.

Stiles smiled down at his tea, and when he raised his gaze Derek find himself mesmerizing at the sight of the man’s irises. They reflected the same shade of golden brown of his cup’s content, liquid, sweet, and-- Get a grip, Derek.

“Nothing,” Stiles answered, smirking. “Figured you’d be one to drink your tea sour.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, you have to admit you haven’t made a good first impression on me, earlier. And you’re spending your Christmas alone.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t seem to be exactly busy either.”

“That’s because my flight to Cali was delated due to this clusterfuck of a snowstorm and now I’m left here on the East Cost to celebrate on my own.”

“I hate snow.” Derek uttered matter-of-factly, without any particular inflection in his voice.

Stiles looked at him amused, stilling for one, two, three seconds before bursting loudly into laughter. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re a Grinch!”

Derek looked away and shrugged. “Laura used to call me that.”

At the periphery of his sight, the shaking of Stiles’ shoulders started subsiding as laughter left room for the incoming seriousness. About time, Derek thought. But then Stiles said, “Yeah, I know. She told me,” and Derek felt a bullet strike him right in the middle of his chest.

“This is not possible.” He was exhausted at the mere idea the spirit of her sister might have brought this guy here. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“How do you think I feel, Derek? I’m just as shocked as you are. I had a conversation with a ghost. Which, it might be cool to think about it, but it’s also kinda creepy, you know. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I mean, your sister was gorgeous, man!”

Derek threw him a reprimanding look. It was his older sister he was talking about. Or rather… her ghost. God, this was beyond belief. He bowed his head, then steer his glance towards the darkness on the other side of the glass.

 “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” But Derek didn’t acknowledge Stiles’ apologies. “How did it happen?”

“What?”

“Laura. How did she die? If I may ask.”

“You already asked, anyway,” Derek muttered indignantly. With the corner of his eye, he noticed the guy unimpressed expression.

“A snowstorm,” he said, finally giving in to Stiles’ request. He felt him freezing next to him, but he decided to continue. “We were supposed to celebrate Christmas Eve here with my friends. Her idea. She had been cooking for two days straight, but that morning she realized she was missing some stupid vanilla pods for her stupid traditional dessert, and she went out in the snow to buy it. She was coming back home when the accident happened. They suspect the blizzard was blowing too strong for her to see the road, because she swerved and went right into the guardrail.” He trailed off, letting the silence envelop them like a safe blanket. Stiles’ breath was heavy as he disclosed his lips, probably to attempt his condolence, but let out only hot air.

The stillness of it all contrasted with Derek’s mind, noisily reeling, and with the flakes that refused to cease their fall outside. Not even to rest for the night. Not even to grant Derek a pause from his own misery.  
“I’m sorry.” Stiles finally whispered, gently resting a hand on Derek’s knee.

Derek looked down in awe at that comforting gesture. He was sure his skin shouldn’t have felt that warm at that simple touch, and yet his shin was burning under the man’s hand.

He forced himself to focus on something else, trying to look collected after all.

“Yeah, well, now you know why I hate snow and Christmas.”

“I don’t blame you.” Stiles said, with a serious tone.

“I do.” Derek couldn’t help himself from snapping.

“What-“

“I was the one in charge of the groceries that year. I was supposed to buy everything the day before the crash. If only I hadn’t forgotten that fucking vanilla thing.”

“Hey, hey, no. Don’t do that. I…” Stiles squeezed his knee. “I get how it feels.”  
Derek snorted. “Yeah, sure.”

“No, Derek, I’m serious.” At Stiles’ unwavering voice, Derek’s eyes shot up to find his determinate gaze. The confidence in this guy was so strong as he stared and gripped at his leg, that it made something crumpled in Derek’s chest. “My mom, she… She died of frontotemporal dementia when I was nine. When she was ill, she kept yelling at me, treating me like she feared me, like I was a monster haunting her worst nightmares. So I started believing it was my fault, that she went crazy because of me. I started researching, collecting every fact I could found about her condition… Apparently, postpartum depression is likely to trigger dementia. Imagine what kind of thoughts clouded my mind then. What if I wasn’t born? Would that have spared her all the suffering?”

Derek should have stopped him. Why was he telling all of this? Why was he being so honest and open to him? He should have stopped him, but something refrained him.

 “And then she died, and my father started drinking and I started spending less and less time with him. Guilt was killing little old me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of my father drowning in alcohol because I had killed my mother.” Stiles sniffed, hesitating, precariously balanced on the sharp edge of his memories. “But then one night I came back to my dad and found him passed out on the table. I tried to drag him to the sofa and put him to sleep, but when I was heading upstairs he gripped at my wrist and told me he was sorry, for everything my mom had said when she wasn’t herself, that she wasn’t like that, she loved me and she would have never given me up. That night I realized my father was blaming himself as much as I was blaming myself. It took us a while to get better, together.”

Derek could get it. He really could. “We did the same, me and Laura. After our family’s death, we came out of it together. But now…”

“What about your friends?”

Derek felt his nostrils flaring, the compassion of this utter stranger washing over him like waves on a rock. Waves so powerful that moved him.

Truth was, Derek had pushed away everyone after his life had took the wrong turn for the hundredth time. After his sister’s death, he had cut every bond and burnt all the bridges to avoid losses. Because every time Derek was one step away from regaining his complete serenity, shit regularly happened – real shit, the kind that makes you lock yourself in a room and stay there, refusing to see the sun.

He had begun to fear happiness, avoiding the illusion that came with it, until apathy had gradually woven its thorny branches all around him to keep feelings outside. He couldn’t really remember when he had become so jaded, but at some point, he had made himself at home in the coziness of his solitude. He had given up every relationship, given into the conviction that he was better alone than broken. But only now he was coming to realize that he was already broken.

Hot, salted tears streamed down his cheekbones and Derek reclined his head until his nape touched the back of the sofa.

He hadn’t cried since after his family’s funeral. He had never cried for Laura, never been able to. His chest had always felt so clogged with emotions that noting had ever come out of him. And now the pressure was breaking down the doors that kept his feelings in, and Stiles’ hand was still there, the only telltale of his presence in the midst of a silent loft.

The bell ringed and startled them both.

Stiles turned around loosening his grasp on Derek, “I thought you were going to be alone tonight.”

“I am.” Derek exhaled a wet, shaking breath, trying to recompose himself. “It must be my dinner,” he added, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

He slid towards the edge of his seat, ready to get up, but Stiles was faster. “Stay there, I’ll open.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Stiles smiled down at him as though Derek, with his size way more prominent than his, hadn’t been crying on his shoulder (metaphorical and non) until two seconds ago. Derek nodded, feeling powerless.

“Money’s on the table on the way out.”

Stiles nodded and Derek watched his back walking away towards the giant sliding door. Who the hell was this guy, really? Why was he so kind to Derek when he didn’t even know him? They had just told each other their tragic past as one would tell a bedtime story and he had stayed as Derek cried his heart out. It must have been a dream, he decided. Because the story of Laura’s ghost was too surreal to be true. _All of this_ was too surreal to be true.

Stiles came back with a bag of Chinese takeaway and some change. “Here you go,” he left everything on the coffee table and then rubbed his sweaty palm on his khakis. “Well, I guess that’s my cue to go. I’ll leave you to your Christmas dinner.”

All at once, Derek was hit by the realization that he wasn’t ready to be alone. Not again, not after this odd, inexplicable meeting. Not after this stranger had cut through the thorny branches of his deterring shield of apathy.

“And spend your Christmas Eve alone?” he said. And that, yeah, that came out absolutely wrong. Great move, douche.

Stiles threw him a sour glance, an eyebrow raised. “Well at least I’m cooking for myself.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I…” Derek breathed out. “You could stay. I mean, if you wanted. I ordered enough food for two, and I have dessert. And wine. I-“

“I have a Skype date,” Stiles cut him halfway.

“Oh.”

“With my family.”

“ _Oh_.”

Stiles smug talked of satisfaction. That bastard.

Derek felt himself flushing, uncomfortable for the first time in years. He cleared his throat, trying to conceal. “Well, in that case there’s wifi here, and you could use my laptop.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.” Stiles said, rubbing nervously the back of his head.

“You’re not intruding. I’m inviting you.”

The guy smiled and shook his head, “Your sister told me the same thing.”

Derek could imagine her, brightly grinning at a perfect stranger, trying to coax him to meet his sullen brother and spend an unusual Christmas together. She’d always been crazy like that.

“Why would you invite me though? I just shook the calmness of your day talking about your dead sister.”

“You brought me her scarf back.”

Stiles eyes widened in surprise. He stared right at Derek’s face in search of some kind of hint to call it a bluff, but then his shoulders relaxed and a smile tagged at the corners of his lips.

“Okay. I’ll stay.” Derek grinned, a strange rush of relief filling him wholly. “But I get to cook something,” Stiles claimed shaking the keys he had just fished out of his pocket. “I’m going to fetch something from the car. Coming right back.” And with that smile still on his face, Stiles walked out the loft, fiddling with his keys, leaving Derek feeling something resembling happiness. That same happiness he had been sure to keep out of his fortress’ door, but that had eventually come knocking for him.

Maybe he could let this Christmas be different, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I wrote more, but whatever scene I added after this it wouldn't work. To do justice to these two we would need an entire series, so I thought I'd decide about a potential sequel depending on the responses. I mean, can you imagine Lily and Derek together? I'm so down with it, but I need your comments here, guys. I want to know what you feel about it.  
> In any case, thank you so much for reading. As usual, if you want to gush, share ideas, or if you just need a hug, you can find me on  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/Deianeira__) & [tumblr](http://itsdeianeira.tumblr.com/). Much love.


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